Not actually a sequel to my last YamaTaka fic, but sort of in the same vein. Except with some rather OOC melodrama from Takaiwa. Yay.
Breathless At Sunset
The sun is setting, and Satoru Takaiwa is out of breath.
The reason he's out of breath is because he's running, and the reason he's running is because he's late. Extremely late, in fact. His feet hit the grey concrete of the pavement in a rapid tattoo, the ragged rhythm of his breathing providing a harsh counterpoint. Takaiwa is an athlete, but right now he's pushing his limits.
Being late is nothing new to Takaiwa; punctuality has never been his strong point. He doesn't usually run, though, not unless he's late for a particularly vital match and he knows the coach is in a bad mood. He certainly never runs to keep a casual appointment, and anyone who knows Takaiwa knows not to expect him for at least five minutes after the time agreed.
That, of course, is the problem. Because Yoshiki Yamazaki isn't just "anyone", and he has a tendency to expect things to happen as and when they're arranged to. And so it is that - despite knowing Takaiwa and his timekeeping habits extremely well - it is certain beyond doubt that Yamazaki will have been at their meeting place at the precise time he said he would be, and will greet Takaiwa with folded arms and an expression that speaks volumes about who's late, and who's been waiting for who all this time.
At least, Takaiwa hopes he will be. A rush of adrenaline comes from nowhere; he puts his head down and runs faster.
That habitual greeting doesn't bother Takaiwa; it's just one of Yama's little quirks. In fact, he has a nagging suspicion that the other boy gets a kick out of very obviously not pointing out how late he is. And, well, if it amuses him it's fine by Takaiwa, because he sort of gets a kick out of making Yama smile. Sometimes he'll even dawdle deliberately when he's going to meet Yama - just a little, just because.
Today though, today is different. Today he didn't intend to be late.
They've met to go to the basketball court dozens of times, since Yama decided he needed to get back in training and that Takaiwa was going to be the one to help him. Not that he minded being nominated. Not at all, actually. But today isn't just them meeting to stretch their legs and shoot a few baskets. Today is them meeting for the first time since that last time, when they stayed long after they were finished practicing, and the humid night closed in around them while they talked, and they somehow found each other's mouths in the darkness, trembling with fearful certainty.
Takaiwa feels his stomach jolt at the remembrance, and forces his leaden feet to keep moving.
"Don't be late," Yamazaki said that last time, when they'd arranged for this time. And while that was most definitely an order, it was also a request. A plea almost, Takaiwa would have said, if he didn't know how unlike Yama that would be.
"I won't be."
He laughed when he promised, and meant it. And now he's late, even by his standards. He should have been there fifteen minutes ago, and there's a horrible niggling fear in the back of his head that says Yamazaki won't wait, and he should have been there. Just for once, he should have been on time. Yama will think he's lost his nerve, and then he'll lose his, and by the time Takaiwa gets there his reason for running will be gone.
Takaiwa's not sure that either of them would have the guts to bring this up again. It's not as if they're that close really, they wouldn't ever have to see each other if they didn't want to, except maybe sometimes on the basketball court. This thing is too new and uncertain, brittle enough to be splintered under the weight of fifteen minutes and perhaps too frightening to risk more than once.
So Takaiwa runs through the failing light, and prays to the god of all stragglers that he isn't too late.
The last traces of day are glowing on the horizon, and Satoru Takaiwa comes in view of the basketball court.
And when a spiky-headed, shade-wearing figure enters his field of vision, his heart gives a skip that has nothing to do with exertion.
He skids to an undignified halt about half a foot away from Yamazaki, and immediately sets about trying to get his breath back, resting his hands on his knees and sucking in air as if it was a rare commodity. When at last he's able to raise his head, Yamazaki is standing there with his arms folded, and the smile on his face is so faint as not to be noticed unless you're actually looking for it.
Takaiwa is, and he grins apologetically in return.
"I'm late, I know. I'm really sorry." He starts to explain the exact chain of events that led to the delay, but Yamazaki cuts him off short.
"Takaiwa, you're always late. And you're here now, aren't you?"
"But I promised I'd be on time today. And I thought - " He hesitates, and Yama shrugs dismissively.
"I knew you'd turn up. You always do, eventually."
He smiles again, more openly this time, and Takaiwa feels a faint brush of fingertips across the back of his hand. And he knows suddenly that it doesn't matter how late he is; Yama will wait for him, certain that he'll always turn up in the end. And he always will.
The sun has set, and Satoru Takaiwa is breathless all over again.